


Nothing But The Rain

by peacock_butterfly



Category: Zombies Run!
Genre: Contains characters from ZR5K, Gen, Gender-Neutral Runner Five, Mute Runner Five
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-05-08 15:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14697117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacock_butterfly/pseuds/peacock_butterfly
Summary: A self-contained arc covering the time after S1-17 but before S1-19.What do you get if you cross a secret underground tunnel complex, a sulky new Runner, a new idea for a radio show, a set of dusty footprints, a missing Runner and a found survivor, and that specific kind of drizzle that doesn't look like it's wet but that soaks you to the bone within ten minutes...?Also contains zombies in a tent, TIE fighter impressions, a brutal game of snap, and another voice in the dark.





	1. Tunnel Vision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tell me I am making sense at all.

After the ear-shattering clang of the trapdoor swinging closed, it is eerily quiet in the underground passage.

Myla looks up and can’t see Five, but she can hear them, panting gently as they swing from the handle they have seized; they snatched the handle when they yanked the trapdoor closed on top of them, and Five is dangling from it now in the dark. Five releases the handle and drops down, grunting as they land. Fortunately Myla has retained enough presence of mind after the unconventional escape to get herself out of the way. It had been a hard landing on a stone floor, sending a wave of fiery tingling through the soles of her feet and up her calves, but neither of them are hurt. 

The quiet is broken as Five picks themselves up and spends a couple of seconds winding up a dynamo torch, and switches it on. 

As the beam rakes the stone walls, Myla also scrambles to her feet. She checks her belt, but the RX/TX light on her comm pack is blinking morosely. “No signal… Sam is going to have an aneurysm. We have to get out of here… Uh. Where is here?”

Five points the torch up at the roof. The trapdoor is made of rusted iron, and as they watch something outside smacks against it, hard; they jump, and a trickle of dust falls into their upturned faces. Through the metal they can’t actually hear the groans, but their imaginations are more than eager to fill in the blank.

“Right,” continues Myla, shifting her backpack straps. “Never mind. Let’s just… get back to where we need to be.” She switches on her own torch, a battery powered one that Sam had unearthed for her. “I’m reserving judgement on whether this was a good idea or not, Five.”

Five rolls their eyes and points the torch down the passage. The beam gives out into grey dusty air. 

“Presumably we’re under the house,” muses Myla as they start down the passage at a careful jog. “But this passage seems older than the top bit. These are wood beams. And this is all stone. Wait did you bring a crowbar?”

Five nods, slapping their backpack with their free hand where a short crowbar is strapped to the outside. 

“Good. Had a horrible mental image of us coming up against some kind of reinforced door barred from the other s— Oh.”

They pull up short, around a corner. Before them is a reinforced metal door. They stare at it, then stare at one 

Five turns their back to Myla and jiggles their backpack.

Myla grips her torch in her teeth and unclips the the short crowbar. “You ha’ be’er be able ‘o ge’ ‘is door o’en Fi’e,” she insists, around the torch. Five turns and takes the crowbar from her; Myla takes her torch out of her mouth. “I am not suffocating or starving to death down here. I refuse.”

Five signs something but Myla doesn’t understand; it’s as garbled as her own speech was since Five has a torch in one hand and a crowbar in the other, and Myla keeps forgetting to look at Five’s hands when they speak. But it was probably something like “Trust me” or “Don’t be such a baby”.

Myla transfers her torch beam to the door. “Come on then.”

Five examines the door, squinting through a chink in the metal. They shoot a glance at Myla, then reach out a hand and push the door gently.

Absolutely nothing happens.

Five cracks a smile and shrugs, _ah well_ . They work the tip of the crowbar into the gap in the metal. 

The lock is as rusted as the trapdoor, and gives way after a few minutes of struggling. More dust falls onto them, and Myla smothers a sneeze. Five hefts the crowbar in one hand and the aims the torch steadily with the other. Myla is, for the first time, grateful to be running with someone military.

They both listen, but whatever lies on the other side is silent. Five shoves the door, which goes clunk and doesn’t open; Five yanks on it instead and it shrieks with rust and age as it opens inward. Myla leaps backward, heart pounding all over again, bringing her torch beam back to the doorway but her hand is shaking fiercely. The wobbling light shows a wall directly ahead. Another passage, perhaps, at a right angle?

Five puts a foot over the threshold, aiming the torch beam. They edge out into the passage and beckon to Myla with the crowbar. Myla follows, aiming her own torch. 

“Storage?” she breathes.

Five makes a small grunt. “Mmm.”

Myla whispers, “Look at the dust, no one has been down here for months.”

Five moves their own torch around, then down… and gestures hard, accidentally hitting Myla in the shoulder with the crowbar. 

“Oi be careful with that th— Oh my god.”

There are footprints in the dust.

But there is dust over the prints. 

Myla’s heart is hammering so hard she is half-convinced it must be audible to Five. “Old prints,” she whispers, sounding it out. She moves her own running shoe to the print to compare. “But still human. Judging by the stride nearly 6 feet tall… Hiking boots. Which means… someone has been through here. There are no return prints. That means there’s a way out.”

Five has been taking deep breaths of the stale air, and now nods slowly in agreement. 

Myla realises what Five has been testing, and takes a deep breath of her own. The cellar smells dusty and damp, but otherwise clean. “Yeah. Nothing died down here. What’s in these, though? If it was a scavenger why didn’t they touch them? They never run alone either.”

Five jams her torch into her headband above one ear and tucks the crowbar under one arm to better converse. “Maybe not military?”

“The stuff?” Myla edges to one of the dark green crates and examines it. They are stacked in piles of six, long thin metal containers with a hinged lid, each one padlocked. “Come on Five, it clearly is. But it’s still here. Why?”

“Heavy. Loud”

“Maybe… Gimme the crowbar a sec. And light.”

Five passes her the crowbar and aims the torch. Myla puts her own torch back into her mouth and accepts the crowbar with her surviving hand. She braces the padlock with her foot and wedges the crowbar into the loop of metal.

Five comes to help her after a few seconds of silent heaving, and Myla is too invested in the mission to take offence. The lock gives suddenly with a dull “ping!” and the two runners sprawl on the dusty floor. Myla recovers first and grabs her torch from her mouth, scrabbling to her feet and lighting up the contents of the box.

It’s full of neatly bundled cable.

“Holy shit,” breathes Myla. “Five look at this.”

Five picks themselves up and gawps at the box. They grab a coil of cable and check the ends; Myla identifies it as a Cat 5. She roots around in the box and finds a mix of other cables, domestic power, large jacks, and a few she doesn’t recognise. Five seizes one of these, a round end with three pins, and seems excited. They sign something about audio and speaking, ending with the gesture that refers to the radio boyfriends. Five grins, and crouches and swings off their backpack. They begin stuffing it with cables.

“Here fill mine too. Don’t forget to take some normal stuff as well as presents for the comm shack.”

Five nods, and takes the backpack Myla offers.

Myla rolls her shoulders, absently rubbing the stump of her left arm. “We should mark this stash. I mean it isn’t what we set out to find but if all of these boxes are half as useful as this one, we’re… we… Wow Five. What else could be in this cellar?”

Five mimes an ice cream cone, zipping up Myla’s backpack. 

“Oh shut up.” Myla takes her pack back and swings it onto her shoulders. “Damn this stuff weighs a ton. I guess that’s why it’s still here.”

Five stands, taking up their own pack, and they seem hesitant.

“What?”

“Trap?” signs Five.

“If it was we would have triggered it already. Stop second guessing and let’s get out of here. We’ve been off comms for at least ten minutes now,” she adds. “Sam will be worrying about us.”

This, of course, settles Five’s resolve, and they nod and shoulder their pack. They point their torch towards the other side of the room. Through the murky gloom of the dusty torch beam the two runners can make out another door. As they start towards it, there is a dull, wrenching clang from the passage behind them, and a gust of air from the passage they came down brings with it the unmistakable stench of reanimated flesh, and a mass of guttural groans.

The runners look at one another.

“RUN!” yells Myla.

They run, charging across the dusty storage room, and come up against another door. Myla yanks on it in panic and it falls open easily. They surge through it and Five turns to slam it shut, casting around for something to barricade it with. Myla yelps as Five yanks a length of cable sticking out of her backpack and lashes the door handles with it.

This passage ends in another door, but the air smells better already. Myla and Five take it at a sprint, hearts still pounding, and Five heaves open the other door. It reveals a metal spiral staircase, but the breeze is stronger and definitely fresher. Five leaps onto the fourth step in one bound and begins climbing. Myla follows.

At the top is another hatch, like the one they had opened to enter the underground passages after that first chase. Five unbolts it in another horrific screech of rusting metal and shoves it with both hands, but it doesn’t move. Five beckons violently to Myla, who scurries up the last few steps and adds her weight to the hatch. It shifts. They heave upwards, and it creaks and opens a tiny bit, but the hinges are rusted almost to the point of being completely stuck. Myla sobs and heaves at it again. Cool air is pouring through the tiny gap; a sliver of sunlight tickles their dust-streaked faces. From below, they start to hear the groaning. There’s a dull thud as Five’s hasty knotting gives way and the doors crash open at the end of the passage.

 “Crowbar!” screams Myla.

Five jams it into the opening and leaps, letting gravity take all their weight onto the end of the crowbar, and the hatch hinges break with a sudden sharp clanging. Myla reaches up too and together they heave the heavy piece of metal up and out.

Sunlight… Myla draws a huge, deep breath of the light and air… and the sour tang of the undead. “Oh my god they’re here too. Come on, let’s go!”

As they scramble up and out of the stairwell, their receivers finally tune back into the Abel signal. “–on cams I can see them! Twelve! Five! Oh my god you’re alive, ha hah! See Janine I told you! I told you! And look at those bulging backpacks! Oh my god I’m so glad you’re both okay!”

“Sam get us out of here, there are zoms in the tunnel heading up to us and I can smell more out here,” snaps Myla.

 Five heaves the hatch back into place. CLANG.

“...And _someone_ just told them exactly where we are.”

“Right sure, sorry, uh… Yeah, okay, there’s a small group in the field to the east. The pack that was on you before you vanished has dissipated but they’re still in the area. Both are… yeah they heard that. They’re coming. So uh… yeah if you head north through the wood, you should be able to swing around east once you’ve looped past that group. But hurry.” 

Janine’s voice, as always, is unruffled and to the point. “Runner Five, Runner Twelve, this route takes you past that abandoned camp that Runner Four spotted last week. See if you can find out anything about who was using it.”

“Damn it Janine,” mutters Myla, as the two runners settle into a loping run, side by side. “This shit’s heavy.”

“I repeat, it is on your route home, Ms Jilani.”

“And keep moving,” adds Sam. “They’ve… sensed you. How do they even do that?”

“Well Runner Five is such a loudmouth they probably heard us from a mile away.”

Five takes that in their stride.

“Just… Just run, all right?”

Sam sounds hurt. Which is odd, since Myla’s stress-rooted wild swing of an insult had been squarely aimed at Five. Five seems to have understood this but hasn’t made an issue of it. Either that or they have taken offence and they are blanking her. Myla doesn’t know how to tell.

The path leads down a hill and levels out before the treeline. They make good time, settling into a rhythm of pounding trainers and deep breathing, adjusting their pace for the extra weight they are both carrying in their battered backpacks, and adjusting their stride for the staircase sprint that still burns in their thighs. But once under the cover of the trees, their comms come alive again.

“Uh guys? The cameras I had access to in here have gone offline… I have a reading on the scanner but it’s not enough to… well it’s nowhere near as much as I like, to be sure, you know.”

“How many are in here and where?”

“At my last count… about ten, spread out, three of them on the path dead ahead of you.”

“Damn it Sam!” They veer off into the undergrowth, and crash noisily through the bushes.

“Sorry! Sorry, I’m flying blind here.”

“How do you do this without talking back?” pants Myla incredulously. “Any more tips Sam?”

“Five has been through this wood before, do you remember the path you took last time? If you can find that, and keep your ears open, you should come out again in about five minutes.”

“That’s five minutes at Five’s pace,” mutters Myla. “Wait…” Five is gesturing. Myla adjusts the mic on her headset. “Five is asking where the camera power source is.”

Janine butts in, “Don’t worry about that now, Five. Your priority is the gear you are recovering, and to investigate that campsite. And Runner Twelve, you and I need to have a little chat about comm etiquette when you get back.” 

“Oo. Twelve got a detention…” whispers Sam. 

“That’s _enough_ Mr Yao.” 

“Sorry. Yes. Not really the moment is it. Uh. Keep running, you two. See you on the other side of this wood, all right?” 

Five and Myla skip down a small bank and come out of the trees onto a dirt path. Five goes “Ahh!” out loud, checks their bearings, and beckons to Myla to follow them. 

“You sure this is the right direction?”

Five nods, and points at a tree as they run past. There’s a symbol carved on it, two lines making a right angle followed by an arc, with a smiley face in it. The beginning of the line has an arrowhead and the end has a cross.

“Was that you?”

Five nods.

 “Okay I have to admit that’s a good idea. Smart. It’s not enough to tell any wanderers exactly what is ahead, but it marks the trail.”

Something snaps in the woods to their right, and their heads whip around to stare through the trees.

“Yeah... What if we got a bit faster here?”

Five’s answer is an increase in their stride.

A minute later, the first zombie falls out of the woods onto the path behind them. It has a t-shirt and half a pair of jeans still on, and what might once have been a fishing hat. It lunges for Five, who surges forward to out-pace it, and the zom trips and falls over. Two more zoms appear behind them, and there’s an ominous groan from ahead. Myla’s heart begins to pound as she matches Five’s pace, and the chase begins in earnest.

Her headset buzzes again. “Guys are you ok? I think they might be converging on you…”

“Yeah no shit!”

Myla whips her head to the left and sees the zom that’s gaining on them; it’s _sprinting_ through the trees. She hits Five in the arm, who turns their head to look over Myla’s shoulder. Five’s eyes go wide.

“We’re surrounded Sam. Five is going for the crowbar.”

“Oh god. Just... keep running! You’re almost there! Don’t stop, don’t slow down! Don’t look back! _Run_!”

Five snarls, and puts on a burst of speed, then veers across Myla’s  path, swings the crowbar so hard it goes “whoooomph”, and almost succeeds in decapitating the sprinting zombie as it leaps forward. The end of the crowbar doesn’t release from the neck when Five yanks on it, so they drop it, and leap into a sprint again, catching up with Myla with their breath coming short and sharp, and their eyes wide, their forehead shining with sweat.

“Holy shit…” gasps Myla. “Lost the bar?”

Five nods, their hands like blades as they run.

One of the other pursuing zoms trips over the body of the sprinter, and the other one slows, distracted. Myla and Five slacken their pace, and find an easy jogging rhythm again, both gasping for breath. The extra weight of the cables is taking its toll. 

“We’re good,” Myla pants. “I think… we’re good... Five took one out... with the crowbar but we… we lost the crowbar…”

“Damn it,” says Janine. “But… very well. Better the crowbar than you. No scratches on either of you?”

Five checks their hands and arms, but their sleeves are intact.

“Nope, we’re good... And I can see the end of the w—. Crawler!” yells Myla, and Five leaps on reflex, but the crawler is some metres ahead, lying in the centre of the path.

“Bloody hell Twelve I nearly jumped out of my chair!” protests Sam. “Kill it quick, and get back on cams where I can keep an eye on you.”

They jog over. Five pins the crawler to the ground with a foot between its shoulder blades, while Myla bashes its head in with a log. And bashes it again. And again and again. Myla doesn’t realise how many times she has hit it until Sam speaks in her ear. “Uh Twelve? I’m pr-etty sure it’s dead again now.”

Myla drops the log. “That was for Joe,” she says quietly, chest heaving, and spits on the foul-smelling grey mess of a corpse.

 “Joe? Who’s Joe?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Five moves their arm, hesitates, then moves fully and puts their hand on Myla’s shoulder. Myla looks at Five. Five squeezes her shoulder and holds up one finger, questioningly, pointing to the corpse, and then to Myla, then a throat cutting gesture, then up for “one”.

Myla nods. “Yeah. That is… This is my first… The first time.”

“Oh wow… I guess that explains the uh… well. Enthusiasm.” 

“Sorry about your trainers, Five.”

“Oh eeew… Okay. Get moving you two, before the smell attracts the rest of the hoard.”

 

 


	2. Camping Is In Tents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best thing to do is to break it down.

Once they emerge from the woodland, there are only a couple of shamblers around, easily visible over the fields. Myla wipes sweat from her upper lip. “We made it…”

They slow to a walk, recharging their burning legs. 

“Got you! I can see you! Ah that’s better… Right, you’re clear for a minute before you’re going to have to pick up the pace again. They’re still coming, but you already killed the fastest one. Get to that campsite, take a selfie or something, and then come home.”

Janine is losing patience. “That means you are to investigate the campsite thoroughly, Runners Five and Twelve. And no selfies.”

“Have you ever even taken a selfie before, Janine?” teases Sam.

“I have,” replies Janine, ruffled. “Once. When I had to renew my bus pass.”

Five snorts with laughter. 

Myla isn’t as amused by the banter. “Where is this camp then?”

“Oh, sorry. Uh. Um. Well Janine um maybe you should--?”

There’s a muffled scuffling noise as Janine approaches the transmitter mic. “I’m very glad you asked, Runner Twelve. Keep going along this path, then when the road forks, go directly forward through the trees. There’s a clearing. Er… and Mr Yao is currently tapping on a monitor screen in a meaningful way, so I suggest you speed up. Run.”

Five and Twelve break into a jog at the same time.

“How did Jody discover this?” asks Myla.

“Oh, oh that was a good one,” answers Sam. “She had a small pack on her tail and decided to go through that patch of woodland like a bolt of lightning, zig-zag. A handful of the zoms didn’t have enough brain cells left to leave the paths. And at least three of them lunged straight into tree trunks and fell over, it was great.”

Five signs something Myla doesn’t understand. “What?”

Five to Myla’s amazement, comes out with a vocal impression of what she assumes is a spaceship engine noise. It’s either that or a dying dolphin. “What the hell Five?”

“... Uh. Am I going mad finally, or did I just hear a TIE fighter noise?”

“Don’t tell me you recognised that screech that Five just made?”

“Ohhhh my god  _ Five _ that was you? That was  _ amazing _ ! And yeah, hah, just like in  _ Empire Strikes Back _ with the asteroid field. ‘Never tell me the odds!’ huh? Can you do it again? Just a second…” There’s a muffled scrabbling noise. “I have to record this for Ja--”

“Stop messing about.” Janine sounds annoyed. “Concentrate.”

“I bet you never saw Star Wars either Janine.”

“You’re approaching the fork, Runners, keep it up.”

“Can you do Chewbacca, Five?” asks Sam in a stage whisper.

“That will  _ do _ , Mr Yao.”

“Please let it be deserted,” complains Myla. “I want to go home.”

The two Runners fall silent as they concentrate on picking a way through a dense little patch of woodland. Myla has no trouble imagining Jody flying through here. They come to the end of the trees and sure enough, in the clearing Janine describes, there’s the remains of a campsite: a partially collapsed tent, a scorched patch of grass where a propane stove has fallen over, a ragged and empty-looking hiking backpack, and bits of ripped cloth scattered all over, snagged on tree branches and caught in patches of nettles.

The Runners slow to a walk. Five yanks on the straps of their rucksack to tighten it again. Myla glances around them but there is no sign of movement yet. She turns her attention back to the campsite. “It’s deserted. Thank god for small mercies.”

Five pokes the tent with her shoe, and something inside lashes out snarling, warping the fabric with a stretching arm. Five yells and falls over backwards. Myla’s heart leaps into her throat. “AHH! Oh my GOD, no it’s not!”

Sam and Janine had both yelped too. “What what is it?” demands Janine.

Five is still splayed on the ground, with their breath coming in audible gasps, staring at the writhing tent.

“I think there’s a zom stuck inside the tent,” guesses Myla. Five picks themselves up. “Well that’s a no-go,” continues Myla, glancing around. “The propane stove is empty. The backpack has been picked over three times already, I would guess.”

“Can you see inside the tent?”

“No! I am not going near that thing! Five lost the crowbar!”

“Do you not have a weapon of your own, Runner Twelve?”

“Huh?” Myla had completely forgotten about that. “Oh. Yeah… I picked up a rounders bat when we went through that little village.”

“Be careful though, please,” begs Sam.

“Right, okay…” Myla begins to psych herself up, swinging off her backpack to retrieve the wooden bat. “I wish this thing wasn’t so short.” 

Five takes another look around the campsite, but they seem to still be clear for now. 

Janine is insistent. “There could be some clue inside the tent. I need to know if we should expect any other travellers.”

“Wait! Twelve, couldn’t you just beat it to death before you even open the tent?” suggests Sam. “That would be way safer.”

Five pulls a face. 

“Yeah I agree with Five,” says Myla, straightening up with the baseball bat in her hand. “that’s going to make it nearly impossible to search afterwards without getting contaminated.”

“I will decoy?” signs Five.

“Ah. You get it to crawl out then I smack its head in?”

“Mmm.”

“Yeah okay.”

“Please be careful,” Sam says again.

Five raises her eyebrows at Myla and lets their own backpack fall to the grass. They roll their shoulders and walk around to the half-collapsed entrance of the tent. The thing inside starts groan-growling again. Five puffs out a couple of breaths, psyching themselves up, then casts around looking for something on the ground. They pick up a branch and edge closer. 

After two probing pokes, the zombie inside lashes out again, but the tent moves with it, and Five is forced to leap backwards again. And to the horror of the Runners and the voices in their headsets, there is more than one voice in the growling. The stench of rotting flesh wafts from inside the tent.

“Multiple…! In the…!” manages Myla. “Oh shit, oh  _ shit _ ! They’re right  _ there _ !”

“Abort, abort,” yells Sam, “Forget it, just pick up your stuff and run, RUN!”

But the things in the tent now have a target direction. With a bizarre heaving motion the zombies struggle to stand up inside the broken tent, to a chorus of groaning, growling, and the ominous sharp sound of tearing fabric. Five scrambles back to collect their backpack, and the tent turns to follow the noise. Myla wrestles with her own pack and the bat, struggling to control her breathing she is so scared. Five grabs the bat from Myla and gives her a little push forward, turns, and stops the zombified tent in its tracks by slamming the rounders bat down on the front of the tent with a cry and a sickening wet crack.

“Don’t you push me!” snaps Myla, but she turns the stumble into a jog, yanking the straps of her backpack tighter.

Five makes another noise, exertion and irritation, and begins to run too.

“Keep going,” says Sam tersely. “I got you. Do what Runner Ten taught you, Five. Head back through those same trees together at the same pace, that should stop the… tent... full of undead behind you. The one Five hit has fallen out the bottom but there are three more inside it.”

Five and Twelve burst into the undergrowth, and sure enough there’s a crunching sound from behind them as the tent full of zombies fails to pick a direction and collides with a tree. Five lets out an exhilarated whoop. 

“Yes!” cries Sam. “Nice!”

Five skids to a halt in a scudding of dead leaves, and doubles back, still holding the rounders bat. They backhand the zom that is struggling to stand up out of the ruins of the tent, knocking it into the others, and dispatch the group by beating in their heads with the short wooden bat. It takes a lot longer than Myla thought it would.

Myla loops around more gently, stopping to pick up a discarded pair of socks that presumably had been flung out of the unfortunate camper’s backpack, and arrives at the tent at a slow jog, just as the last zombie groans its last. “Ho-ly  _ shit _ .”

Five staggers away from the tent and presses their back into a tree, gasping for breath.

“Yeah you said it,” pants Sam. “Whoo! And now finally I can laugh about how hilariously funny that looked! Did you see how they had forced their legs through the bottom of the tent? It was like something from The Flintstones, or… or… damn what Disney film is it where the tent ends up running away? Does it involve rhinos, I think it involves rhinos...”

Janine interrupts. “Runner Five, can you get anything at all from the tent? I presume the ceasing of smashing sounds mean it’s now safe to look.”

Five steps carefully towards the bodies, pulling their buff up over their mouth. 

Sam manages to stop laughing, clearing his throat. “Safe is relative. Don’t hang about too long Runners, there are a couple of zoms from the last pack starting to home in on your position. I bet it stinks down there.”

“It does,” agrees Myla, with her head buried in her own scarf. “I feel sick…” Five pokes the last zombie with the end of the rounders bat, which is stained and cracked, and shrugs at Myla, shaking her head. “It’s pretty disgusting,” reports Myla. “Judging by what’s left of the clothes probably these zoms weren’t even the original campers, they probably just ate the guy that was and got stuck in the tent…”

“What a way to go,” comments Sam, sobering up.

“Very well.” Janine sounds disappointed. “I suppose you should come back now. I will leave you in Mr Yao’s hands for the return journey. Come and see me when you get in.”

Sure enough when Five and Twelve come out of the woods, they are well out of range of the pack Sam had seen to the north, and upwind of them. From the top of the rise they can see them lurching about aimlessly in the field to the south. Myla makes a rude gesture towards them, and instantly feels a bit better.

To the north, down a small slope and then up the hill, the walls of the township rise up out of the tragedy of the apocalypse, with the new banners that the craft club has made fluttering in the breeze.

“Hm,” says Five, out loud. They blow out a breath of air and break into a sprint.

“Oh no you don’t!” Myla increases her speed too, and Five cracks a smile. They race up the hill to the compound.

“Raise the gates!” comes Sam’s voice, over their comms and over the megaphone which is duct-taped to a post outside of the comms shack. The siren creaks into life, and the gates follow. Five soars through a full two seconds ahead of Myla, and they both come crashing to a halt in the quad, gasping for breath, legs burning, the taste of metal in their mouths but feeling lighter than air, because they have done it again, they have come home, alive and intact and with a backpack full of supplies and materials.

Myla lets her backpack drop to the ground and struggles to breathe, doubled over with her hand on her knee. Five has also taken off their backpack and is sprawled on the ground, struggling to get their breathing under control. 

The gate clangs closed behind them, shutting the monsters outside.

Sam comes running over from the comm shack. “Guys! Welcome home! Great run! That tent thing really was hilarious, assuming you take it out of context. What was that blip in the middle though? A tunnel? What happened? What did you find?”

“Bite check first,” comes the voice of reason from Runner Eleven, who is on covering fire duty and is holding a rifle. 

“Yeah…” replies Sam, “But, they’re fine, really, look at them.”

Eleven regards Twelve, who is sitting now and panting with her head between her knees, and Five, who is gamely attempting to stretch it off but is clearly exhausted. There are bits of brain and bone stuck to Five’s shoes. “Come on,” says Eleven, with a glance to the trainers. “Off to the Med tent.”

“I think I pulled something,” mutters Myla, lifting her head. Five climbs to their feet and sticks out a hand to Myla. Myla ignores it and stands up by herself. “Someone else can take my pack, I’m done. It’s mostly tech. Knock yourself out.” 

Sam protests, “Wait that’s not proto-…” Myla ignores him and heads for the medical tent, moving gingerly on her left foot. “-col…” Sam sighs and calls after her, “Twelve don’t forget to check in with Janine.”

Myla throws up her hand without turning around, and lets it drop angrily, not breaking her stride.

Five exchanges a glance with Sam, and reaches for the abandoned backpack.

Sam lunges and grabs it first. “No you don’t. Come on give me yours too. Go and get checked. Take a shower. Then come over and tell me all about it.” Five smiles at him, and hands him their pack. Sam isn’t prepared for the weight. “Good grief! What did you pick up, a dictionary?”

Five draws a rectangle, then a house, with their hands.

“Ah the old brick in the handbag trick, I see. Ugh!” Sam heaves it onto his shoulder with a show of strain. “You could have just dropped this onto that crawler, that would have worked. Cleaner than a log. Hey… what is with Myla today?”

Five shrugs, thoughtful. That run had been nothing new in itself. Runner Twelve has always been prickly with them. She has a spiky sort of personality in general, and tends to stupid pride (in Five’s opinion) when it comes to the loss of her left forearm. But she is a good partner to run with, and an excellent tracker. What had been shocking was the aggression with which she had taken out that crawler. 

“Do you think it really was her first time killing a zom? I mean that was pretty brutal.”

Five shrugs again. 

“Yeah… I have no idea either. And who is this Joe guy? Anyway. Go and get cleaned up. I’ll see you later?”

Five nods.

 

* * *

 

After a shower and a change of clothes, and scrubbing the viscera off their trainers, Five grabs their notebook and pencil and draws a quick sketch of their adventures in the old tunnels, then heads for the farmhouse first, to report to Janine and Evan. She finds them standing over a battered map of the area with a pencil in hand each. As Five approaches it becomes clear that the map is made up of at least fifty sheets of A4 paper with black and white google maps printed on them, sellotaped together. 

Runner Seven looks up first. “Hello Five, welcome back.”

“Ah Runner Five,” chirps Janine. “Exactly the person we wanted to see. Bravo for a wonderfully productive tech run. However, I was alerted to your discovery by Mr Yao wailing that he had lost you both. Care to explain what happened?”

Five produces the sketch, and searches for the location of the old house on the map while Evan deciphers the drawing. “Is this the looted manor house on Primrose Hill?”

Five nods and taps its location on the map with their finger.

“And you found a hatch in the ground?”

“Mmm,” says Five, and mimes the drop into the underground passage. “Twelve found it,” they add.

“I knew that house had a cellar but not a whole underground system,” muses Janine.  “Someone in that family must have been a survivalist.”

Five considers it, then shakes their head, and signs “Older” repeatedly.

“What?”

“Five says it was older,” translates Evan. “The passages were older, too old to be a recent addition. Except for the doors,” he adds, translating out loud as Five’s hands flutter again. “Which were… in poor condition, but new. So someone has repurposed the underground of the manor house.”

“And you’re sure it’s not the military?”

Five nods. Then suddenly remembers about the footprints, and taps Ewan’s arm to get his attention. “Someone was there before us.”

“What?”

Five points to the drawing of the storage room. “Found footprints, not fresh. Covered in dust.”

“What was that?” 

Five resists the urge to sigh. Janine  _ can _ read Abel’s sign language, but not when she is flustered, which apparently she is.

“Someone else had been through the storage room… but not touched anything. Seriously Five, nothing?”

Five shakes their head emphatically, “Padlocked, all of them. Over ten boxes.”

“We have to go back there,” says Evan to Janine. “It’s a goldmine.”

Five pulls a face. Janine notices, “What is it? Why not? Did the zombies get inside?”

Five nods, “Trapped some inside.”

“It would be a huge mission anyway,” muses Evan. “A preliminary decoy run to clear the tunnels would be a start.” 

“And you are assuming the passage you found is the only entrance,” adds Janine. “I think this deserves further investigation.”

“Can zombies climb spiral staircases?” asks Five.

Janine marks the house on her map with a circle and a star next to it. “This will be a good chance to find out. Thank you Runner Five. Excellent work. Go and get some rest, you’ve earned it. I’ll work this mission into your rota, but it looks like we’ll be sending you out with some friends. This is too dangerous to attempt alone.”


	3. You ain't never had a friend like me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the mood to help you, dude.

“Okay okay. Who would win… in a fight between… the genie of the lamp, and Mary Poppins?”   


Sitting on the camp bed in the radio shack, Five grins.   


Eugene considers his response. “Uhh... It would have to be Mary Poppins.”

Jack, snorts. “Are you serious? The Genie can shape-shift, man! Grow, shrink, become a, a, a, a camel—“   


“Actually that’s Abu, he changes him into a bunch of stuff before the elephant—”   


“— and other things! You know, think of that song bit where he creates all of those— that entire parade for Aladdin, and then—“   


“But that’s exactly what I mean, that parade was all just smoke and mirrors. All of it vanishes into the lamp afterwards. It’s not real. Mary Poppins though, who knows what else she has in that carpet bag. That’s a real standard lamp, and a real… what else comes out of there, I forget. Plus if someone gets the magic lamp off... like, whoever, the Genie has to stop and do what they say.”   


“Yeah, but if the wind changes direction, it’s goodbye Mary.”   


“She wouldn’t get blown away you doofus, that’s just her rule. Lots of other naughty children waiting for a good spoonful of sugar.”   


“I’ll give you a spoonful...” Jack pokes him affectionately. “More on this story, dear listeners, after this… Stay safe out there guys. You don’t want to miss the rest of this argument,” and hits Play on the wheel of his battered iPod.

Eugene sighs indulgently and leans back in his chair to address Five where they are sitting on the bed. “So, how’s it going for our favourite cable-wrangler?”   


Five nods and makes the “okay” sign with both hands.   


Jack also leans around. “Actually Five while you’re here, I wanted to ask you something.”   


“ _ We _ wanted to ask you something.”   


“Yeah but it was my idea, and I’m only saying that so that you know I want to take responsibility for it, if Runner Five gets offended.”   


Confused and curious, Five and makes a “What?” gesture.

“Go ahead then, Mr Responsible,” says Eugene.

Jack, having insisted on taking the responsibility for the question, now apparently crumbles beneath the weight of it. “Uh right, yeah. Um. Five. Runner Five. We were wondering… Or no I mean I was wondering… if you wanted to maybe do an interview with us… for the show.”

Five is stunned. They bring their hands to their chest.

Eugene nods and smiles. “Yes, you. And before you say it,” he continues, as Five raises their hands to protest, “it’ll be fine. I’ll translate for you. If either of us get stuck for a sign maybe you could write. And you do make sounds, even if you can’t talk to anyone yet. People will love to hear that.”

“We have it on good authority that you do an amazing TIE Fighter impression,” adds Jack, grinning.

“Why me?” signs Five, a little shaken at the idea.

“You’re not alone. Four and Six have agreed too, and we haven’t worked up the nerve to ask Eight yet but we’re going to. Ten as well. Even Seven agreed to give us a moment, he says it will be good for moral. And… You’re our newest runner, and I think it’s fair to say the darling of Abel Township, O Shepherd of the Sports Bra,” adds Jack, the teasing assurance back in his voice now the big question has been posed and the major difficulty raised and overcome.    


Five plays at looking guilty and signs out a confession, “Every run, I drop one. I pick it up on the way back. There are only five bras, not five hundred. The secret is out.”   


“See,” says Eugene, laughing, “that’s what I mean. That’s what Jack means.”   


“That is what I mean.” Jack retrieves the conversational baton. “You’re so smart, and funny. I wish more people knew that about you. That you’re human. I mean, as opposed to some kind of mythical running angel thing that quite literally dropped out of the sky one day. And I bet you have some great stories. Obviously, stories that you’d be okay sharing, you know, I mean this isn’t like supposed to be some kind of therapy or or or a Jeremy Kyle or anything. You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to.    


“Part of it is classified,” signs Five, waggling their eyebrows.   


“I actually don’t think you’re joking,” replies Eugene. “But you know, this kind of stuff is all great material. Will you do it?”   


“Oh my god, if we ask you something and you can’t answer is that a ‘If I told you I would have to kill you’ type thing?” asks Jack.

Five nods very seriously.   


“Ohh my goddd!” giggles Jack. “You are actually  _ amazing _ . Please say you’ll do this Five!”   


“He will be writing the questions?” Five asks Eugene.   


Eugene looks at Jack, then looks back at Five. “Not any more.”   


Five manages to soothe Jack’s mock outrage by repeatedly signing that he can indeed write the questions, smiling so hard their cheeks begin to ache. “But,” they add, “let me read them before the recording.”   


“Sure, sure, anything.”   


“You do realise this means you’ll have to hand in your homework on time, for once,” puts in Eugene.   


“All right,  _ dad _ . Honestly do you really think I don’t—”

“Aaaand we’re back,” says Eugene smoothly, pressing a button on the sound board as Jack prepares to continue the argument. “Hullo again listeners. I think I am allowed to tell you,” he continues with a glance at Five, who nods, “yes, I can tell you, that we have just now had another positive response about our upcoming series on Abel Township’s Runner Corps.”   


Jack grins, “That’s right listeners, Abel’s very own Runner Five is right here in the studio with us, right now, and has just graciously agreed to be interviewed live on air as part of our new series.”   


“With a tiny bit of help from myself,” adds Eugene, “for reasons that are of course evident, but hey, who doesn’t need a tiny bit of help from their friends now and again these days?” Five lets out an audible breath at that, surprised and touched. “Five promised me a piggy-back ride in return,” continues Eugene flippantly, “so we’re square.”   


Five backhands his shoulder; he grins and looks back, but doesn’t comment.   


“I am so excited for this,” bubbles Jack. “This entire series I mean. Who doesn’t wonder what it’s like to be out there, running for Abel?”

“I know I do. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be running inside the walls too.”

“Get Five to run a lap when you get that piggy-back,” quips Jack.   


Five hits him too.

“Ow! All right Five!” yelps Jack, grinning. “Listen, that’s one supply run I for one would be very happy for you to make. Oh my god! Oh my god Gene I just had the most incredible idea!”   


“I dread asking this, every time… but what?”   


“Get this: runner jousting!”   


“… Are you serious.”   


“One hundred and ten percent. Two runners, and their fearless charges, a 100m sprint, last pair standing wins. What do you think, Five?” asks Jack mischievously, and pushes the microphone towards them.   


Five hesitates, absurdly nervous at finding their voiceless self live on radio, then manages to make a “Hmmm” noise in thoughtful disapproval, and blows a raspberry into the microphone.   


“You heard it here first!” crows Jack, and the music track fades in over Eugene’s helpless laughter.   



	4. Missing in Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I could be rotten, wouldn't that be nice?

The list of questions does eventually make its way to Five, a day after Jack promised. He lopes into the mess tent one rainy morning as Five is finishing breakfast alone and hands them a handful of scraps of paper, bits of instruction manuals with his handwriting scrawled over the back. Five has to give him credit, it is neater writing than they had imagined. Five signs thank you, and he replies, “Welcome. Just.. please don’t die until we can interview you. In three days?”

Five nods, trying to reassure him, but he is clearly distracted and eager to get back to the radio shack. Eugene is probably having a bad day. Or something disturbing had come over the airwaves… Five adores their constant ‘Stay safe out there’, but this is the first time he had specifically told them not to die.    


Jack high fives them solemnly and leaves, pulling his jacket up over his head in the rain.   


Five takes a noisy sip of the juice carton (an excellent find by Maggie) and spreads out the sheets, and begins to read. It’s an interesting mix of questions:   
_ If you were an animal, what would you be and why? _ __   
__ Can you tell us about your closest shave yet outside Abel?  
_ Weapon of choice? _ __   
_ Milk in first or tea in first? _ __   
_ Can you tell us about the night you ran back alone after escaping from NC? _ And then under this in different smaller, neater handwriting, underlined twice: ( __ ONLY IF YOU WANT TO. -E )   


Five sighs a laugh, touched.    


“Hey, Five!” calls Fatima from the kitchen. “They’re talking about you on the radio.” She places a battered transistor radio onto the serving counter and turns up the volume.

Five leaves the bench where they had been sitting and comes over to listen. Fatima turns back to the washing-up bucket and adds, “Sam’s fangirling again.”   


Five shakes their head indulgently.   


“… and I swear, right, Runner Five swings that golf club like an absolute professional, and the zombie’s head just pops off and it sails, right, sails a good maybe thirty feet down the road, and then starts like, rolling down the hill. And I know Five is safe for now, that was the only upright one around for a click or so, so I keep watching the head.”   


“The decapitated zom head,” Eugene clarifies, grinning.   


“Yeah! Off it goes, and it rolls and bounces all the way down the hill, and, I kid you not, goes PLOP straight into an open manhole at the bottom of the hill. Right down. Direct hit. And I switch back to Five, who is holding the golf club up in one hand and is holding up four fingers to the camera with the other!”   


“Ohhh, like, FORE!” Jack laughs heartily. Five compares this with his mood just now and realises this is a recorded segment.    


“Exactly! Brilliant! Hole in one, Five, I have no idea how many points you get for that but oh my god that was epic.”   


There’s a lull as the recorded segment finishes, fading out on the laughter of three light voices, and music cross-fades in clumsily. Eugene sounds tired. “You heard it here first listeners, Runner Five clearly has hidden golfing talents. But is there another weapon that takes the top spot?”   


“To find out more, you only have to wait three more days, until Five gives us the answer to this question and more, direct and live on air, as part of our new series, ‘Running for our lives’, where we profile... well, any of Abel’s runners who want to come and talk to us, really. It would be great to talk to you all.”   


“It sure would. Meanwhile do you have a good song for the good runners out there?”   


“What’s wrong with the one already playing?”   


Fatima reaches over to retrieve the radio as Eugene and Jack start up again, and knocks the volume back down. “God they’re adorable,” she says, winking at Five. “So, is it a golf club?”   


Five shakes their head.   


“What is it?”   


Five zips their own mouth closed and points emphatically at the radio.   


“No spoilers huh? Fine, fine. You done with that?”   


Five hands off the squashed remains of the juice carton and gives Fatima a thumbs up.   


“You’re welcome. See you later.”   


Five returns to the bench, and to the questions. Rain clatters off the tent roof and dribbles down the metal poles. They wonder what question had been asked of Sam that he would recount that story. That had been a good run… It had been weeks since their turn came for an entertainment run. On the other hand, Five had been asked to go on decoy three times in a row. Maybe it was time to have a quiet word with Seven about the rota. So to speak. 

Speak… ‘Running for our lives’ was quite a good name. But Eugene’s delicate way with words has made Five start to wonder if their voice would ever return. Five is pretty sure they had always been fairly quiet, reserved; before Z-Day it was all a bit blurry and difficult to remember with any clarity. All Five knows for sure is that between crash-landing their parachute in a tree after leaping out of a burning helicopter, climbing down with a sprained elbow, and making a mad dash for the walls of Abel Township via the zombie-infested hospital ruins and making it just as their predecessor had been sniped in the head while Sam had very carefully refused to burst into tears, something has blocked up their ability to communicate with spoken words. When Five puts it like that, this isn’t as surprising as it feels.

Dr Myers had gently reassured Five that their case was far from the first she had come across. In fact there are six other PTSD mutes within the walls, and two hearing-impaired BSL natives, who are teaching the mutes a dialect of sign language, and will teach anyone who wanted to learn. Two of the mutes are children, orphans.

Five attempts to concentrate on the list of interview questions, raising some of the answers to the forefront of their mind.

_ Pirates or ninjas?  _ (Pirates, of course, yargh.)  
_ Popcorn: salted or sweet?  _ (Sweet.)  
_ Any tips for people interested in becoming runners?  _ (Running is a full body and full mind exercise, 90% of it happns in your head. Practise breathing.)  
_ What’s your opinion on Marmite? _ (Five shakes their head and sucks in a breath; that’s a loaded question if ever there was one.)  
__ What are some of your hopes for the future?  
_ What do you  _ _ not _ _ miss about life before the outbreak?  
_ __ What five Disney characters would you take with you on a heist?

At the end of the list there is a little note again in Eugene’s writing:  _ We’ll probably only ask three of these and just improvise off of your responses, but if there’s anything you would rather avoid (or really want to talk about) let us know. -E _

The rain has intensified. This always puts Abel in a grumpy mood. 

Five stuffs the papers inside their jacket pocket and gets up. They retrieve two cartons of juice from the mess tent, signing it out on their own ration page, and duck out into the downpour. From the mess tent it’s a short squelch across the compound to the comms tower, looming up in the grey. There’s a duckboard path improvised out of pallets and bits of wood leading from the shack to the mess tent, after one memorable rainstorm where Eugene got stuck in the mud and had to be rescued.

What is bothering Five, they realise, as they pass through the opening in the fence, was that all the questions Jack and Eugene have thought up are designed to make Five talk about themselves. When all Five wants to do is to talk about how amazing everyone else is: how brave, courageous, thoughtful, strong, inspiring… 

Actually scratch that. Five just wants to  _ talk _ .

Five bangs on the door of the comms shack, one-two-three-four-five.

“Who is it?”

Five hesitates, then bangs five times on the door again.

“Oh hey Five come on in! Try not to drip on anything.”

Five heaves open the door and slips inside into the gloom of the comms shack. Abel’s centre of operations is small, dim, and cramped, but Sam likes it that way, nestled into the centre of a web of cables and screens like a benevolent spider. 

Said spider looks up and grins. “Hi there Five.”

Five pushes down their hood and holds out one of the cartons of juice.

“Ahh you’re a star. You know how you don’t realise you are craving essential minerals and vitamins until one of your favourite people hands you a carton of juice?” He takes it from Five with a flippancy belied by his words, and yanks off the straw. Then looks up at them, stricken. “Wait when did this stuff expire?”

Five grins and points out the date, only two months ago, adding “I drank one already.”

“Oh okay then. Cheers.” Sam stabs the straw accurately into the carton with a sharp pop, and is silent while he drinks the entire carton, down to the noisy slurping at the bottom.

“Ahh… Oh my god that was good. Thanks. Was this just a micro supply run, or can I help you out with anything at all?”

Five opens their mouth… and sighs. 

“You are of course welcome to just chill out here for a bit if you like,” adds Sam. “Janine is coming by at some point this afternoon but it’s just to talk about the rota for this coming week. Actually while you’re here I wanted to ask you something…” 

He motions Five to come closer. Five edges past a crate of cables, some of them from their supply run, and takes a seat on the other chair beside him. 

“What’s Runner Twelve like to work with?” asks Sam quietly, though above the drumming rain on the roof of the shack there is no way they could be overheard. “I mean, off the record. I know she carried her weight on that tech run, quite literally, since I ended up carrying her pack as well. But… between us?”

Five opens their mouth, but words still won’t come. They screw up their face and look down, trying to shake it off and focus on the question. This must be so awkward for Sam. They glance up, and find he is watching them gently.

Five lifts their hands. “Myla… is a great runner. But her words are like spikes.”

“Yeah… That’s a great way of putting it. I mean what she said about you being a loudmouth was needlessly rude, I mean… There was no call for that.”

Five has to smile at his indignation. “It’s ok. I don’t care. I think… she was very stressed.”

“We’re all stressed, Five, it’s the bloody apocalypse!”

“Yes yes but… stressed about running with  _ me _ . I hope she feels better now.”

Thunder rumbles very softly overhead. It’s the kind of storm that sounds like a cat settling down for a nap. There’s no visible lightning so they’re safe in the wet, corrugated iron hut, for now. 

Sam considers this idea. “What… because of her...?”

Five shakes their head. “No… well... I feel like she was trying to prove something. Not sure what or who to. I hope she isn’t hurt,” adds Five, remembering Myla’s limp towards the medical tent. 

“I asked Maxine, she said she was fine, a few days off the rota and she’ll be right as rain. Huh. Well, thanks for hashing that out with me. But I think you have the right to be a bit upset about that loudmouth thing.”

Five shrugs. “I… dropped the manhole cover, made too much noise.”

“That’s not the point, Five. I… I just…” Sam stands up, agitated. “Oh can I just give you a hug? Please?”

Five stands up gratefully and opens their arms. Another thunderclap purrs across the sky outside.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” Sam murmurs into Five’s ear.

Five releases him and signs a question. “Is everything okay? Are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah, fine, I’m fine, I’m totally fine, it’s just… It’s just…” He deflates. “No, I’m not fine.”

Five opens their arms again, and Sam buries his face in their shoulder. “It’s… Uhh. It’s Nineteen. He… went off scanners an hour ago, off comms, out of transmission range, and he hasn’t come back. Yet. I mean. He could still come back, maybe he just got lost. Since he’s MIA no one else knows yet, just the gate crew. And the radio. And you… I try to stay positive you know, but… not everyone’s as strong as you are, Five. I don’t think he’ll make it. Not in this weather. It feels like such a betrayal to think that. And… I don’t think I can… and I don’t want to. But now I feel terrible for not like… You know.”

Five tightens their hold on him. This news explains a lot.

“Sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to blurt all of that out.” But he gasps, moved, when Five puts a hand to the back of his head. “Oh man… I really let him down.”

“Nuh uh,” says Five, shaking their head gently for emphasis.

“I know, but… I can’t help it. I wish you could talk to me. Sorry! Oh god I’m so sorry that wasn’t fair. Sorry… I’m a um. A bit of a mess today.” Sam is refusing to cry. “I hate it when we lose someone… I hate it so much. It makes me hate everything about… life. Or at least what we call living, these days.”

Five remembers the voice in their ear in the dark and the rain, something about the ones who survive are the unlucky ones… And something else, in Runner Four’s voice, as part of a story she had been telling, ‘at least the apocalypse is over for you now’. Is death really so bad any more? 

Yes, it is for the ones who are left behind, decides Five firmly, and comes to a decision.

Five releases their hold slowly, and signs, “Where did 19 go?”

Sam looks at them, startled. “You are  _ not _ going after him.”

Five blinks slowly, and asks again.

“Five… I... God listen to me, I’m the operator I’m not supposed to have favourites. But if whatever might possibly have happened to Runner Nineteen happens to you too, I… I don’t know what…” 

Five signs again, “Will take binocs. Promise not to leave cams. Not knowing is worse.”

“...Um.” He sniffs. “Yeah, okay. Yes. Let’s, um, let’s do that. Can you go out there now? Well, not right now, maybe when the rain eases off a bit? In maybe an hour?”

Five nods.

“And let’s take that new headcam, that might reach further than the cams in that direction. Have I mentioned how freaky it is to watch through a headcam? Yeah I know, I know,” he adds, as Five smiles wryly and points to their own eyes, “you’re really there, seeing that stuff. I mean some of what you see is horrifying… But I get a static-y image of the same thing that bounces up and down the entire time, it’s like watching a horror film.”

“Next fun run, will pick up rollerskates.”

“It’s a deal.”


	5. Raindrops keep falling on my head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blues they send to meet me won't defeat me.

“Raise the gates…”

NEEEHH, NEEEHH, NEEEHH…

“Runner Five ready?”

Five makes a trumpet noise, “Brrr brr-brr brrb, brr brrrrrr!”

“Covering fire…”

The gate crew raise their rifles and scan the field. KAKAKAKAKA. KAKA. KAKA. KAKAKAKAKA.

“and… Go.”

And Five sets off out into the rain, suppressing the old urge to leap into a strong run right away. This is usually a bad idea. Unless of course there is a zombie hiding around the corner. Five checks, and is relieved that the field is empty. That had only happened once, picking up a fast zom barely 100m out of the gates, and they had been genuinely angry about it, to the point of leaving a passive-aggressive message on the community whiteboard that simply read “COVER THE GOD DAMN DOORSTEP”.

Five rolls their shoulders as they hit their stride down the slope, and start to jog through the overgrown grass towards the north-bound path. Mud and water seeps into their trainers instantly, but once their woollen socks are soaked their feet begin to grow warm again.

“Five are you sure you’re okay to run in this? I mean you were out for a good two hours yesterday, you must have covered over 15k, did you sleep well?”

Five nods and makes a thumbs up as they pass a camera mounted to a telegraph pole. This is a lie, but they do feel okay, and their pace is slower than usual due to the unusual weight of the search-and-rescue kit on their back: extra water, survival blanket, first aid kit, a lighter, firestarters, noisemaker, torch, waterproof sheet, rope, knife, a packet of Tuc crackers and a box of raisins... But running in the rain is its own sort of energising.

“I know, I know, ‘Stop fretting Sam, trust me to let you know if I’m not up to it.’ The thing is Five I don’t trust you, not with that, I mean I trust you with my life, but I must admit I don’t trust you to be completely honest about yourself. Wait, that sounds way suspicious. That’s not what I mean. I mean like… I wouldn’t put it past you to run this mission even if you felt awful. Because… you’re one of the most compassionate people I know. Um. But, running when you’re not up to it is an awful idea, Five, because that’s when people get sloppy and make mistakes. But you know that. I know that. Why did I just say all of that anyway?” He sighs. “Sorry. Look. There’s a small-ish horde all the way off to the east down in the valley, they’re thoroughly distracted by something, probably something awful, but it’s nowhere near the direction I last saw Nineteen. So… keep on going, you’re clear for now. So you’re looking to head on down the road and through the remains of Newford village. Then instead of running the decoy roller-coaster loop through the north woods, keep going on the A-road north-east. About 3k away there’s a roundabout with a tipped over lorry across it, and Nineteen went past that and down the embankment, into the woods down off the old motorway slip-road. But Five, please listen to me, this is strictly recon, and it’s dangerous. Do not weigh yourself down any more unless it’s a grade A supply. Which this week is…” Paper rustles. “...is medical. So you can stop for bandages and aspirin, but not for toy cars or sledgehammers, okay?”

Five claps once, code for “Yes”, and settles into rhythm. Thunder rumbles overhead again, but there is still no sign of lightning.

“Oh, one sec…”

There’s the faint sound of the shack door opening and muffled voices, then a scuffling as Sam sits again.

“Five? Lord Zombie Killer himself is here, he wants to ask you something.”

“What?!” Five grins as they hear Runner Ten hesitate. They can practically hear him blush. “Oh, no I, I don’t want to interru–”

“No no it’s okay, come in, you can ask Five yourself. Sit here. Take my chair

“Oh er... Okay.” There’s scuffling and a polite clearing of the throat, and Five has a clear image of him pushing his glasses up his nose, then: “Hello, Runner Five,” comes Chris McShell’s light, precise voice. “I hope all’s well. I had hoped to catch you in person, I didn’t realise you were on a run today. Foul weather for it, do take care of yourself out there. Er. But, thinking about it, since you’re out, I was wondering if you could do a tally for me? Sam says you’re heading out to the motorway to the north-east, and I haven’t done a head-count out there for a week or so. If you wouldn’t mind keeping track of the quantity of zoms you see, and if you could remember the approximate proportion of crawlers, shamblers and sprinters?”

Five claps once.

“Great, thank you. If I’d caught you before you left I’d have given you some proper gear, but… just do your best, your best estimate is fine, under the circumstances.”

“What gear?” asks Sam, trying to keep his mood light and over-shooting into the inappropriate. “Have you finally created a super-weapon of mass zombie destruction?”

“No!”

Five grins, remembering a similar note of alarmed outrage in Ten’s voice on their first proper mission together, _There_ _is_ _no magic, just_ _science_ _!_

“Er. Just a field recorder. A stopwatch. And Jody got me a box of click counters when she looted Uphill Sports last week,” explains Ten, bashful. “Like this one.” _Click-click, click-click._ “I wanted to pass one to Five for the next run. These things will make tallying much quicker. Plus it will make it far easier to keep count while you’re being chased, you won’t forget the number afterwards.”

Five snorts a laugh, knowing Ten is being serious and endeared by his dedication. Sam isn’t as amused. “Right, brilliant, so next time a runner goes down we’ll know exactly how many zoms ate them.”

“Well… yes, we will. Assuming we retrieve the clicker. Wait… You said ‘next time’?” There’s a small pause. “Sam… According to the rota Five isn’t supposed to be out today. Did something happen?”

Sam sighs. “Well, I suppose word will get out eventually. Um. Okay you’re right… I lost contact with Runner Nineteen earlier out by the motorway. The cameras out there are on the fritz, this storm has taken out three already. Five offered to go out with the headcam and binoculars to… try and find him.”

“It’s not your fault Sam,” says Chris perceptively, after another pause. “Theo is… he can be very impulsive.”

“I know! I know. He’ll probably be hiding under the overpass, waiting until the rain stops, the wuss. If he is, Five, punch him for me?”

Clap.

“I’m pretty sure that’s not protocol.”

“While the Major’s away, the mice… oh who am I kidding, the mice obey Janine…” says Sam bitterly. “You’re looking good Five,” he adds, directing his voice into the microphone. “Nothing on your tail yet, but there’s a couple of shamblers just coming out of the mouldy cornfield, heading for the road. You’ll out-pace them at this rate.”

Five wipes the rain from their face and raises their fingers to their headset. They click their fingers once for every zombie in their vision, one two to the left in the soggy, sagging remains of the corn… three four five six to their right in the open grassy field… seven down by the pond in the same field.

Ten lights up. “Seven? How interesting…” A pencil scratches on rough paper. “Yes I can see them on the scanner. And you’re still south of Newford?”

Clap.

“And there are two, and a group of four, and one on its own? And the one on its own is within half a k of the four? There’s too much rain on your headcam to be sure.”

Clap.

“Keep an eye on the lone one, would you? My research indicates–”

“Uh, Ten I’m really sorry but this is not a good moment.”

“Just one!” pleads Ten. “Please! Just let me test this one thing, look I’m already timing it. That lone one should end up merging with the group of four in about…” More pencil on paper, and muttering. “... over sixty equals… yes, in about one-point-seven minutes, give or take, given the terrain. I haven’t managed to model for that yet. Or for the weather. That’s what’s so interesting, you see, I know this equation works on dry days, I’ve never had a chance to check it in the rain before.”

“What’s one-point-seven minutes in real money?”

“One hundred and two seconds.”

“... and what’s that in real minutes?”

“Subtract sixty…”

“Uh… One hundred minus sixty is forty, plus the two… One minute and forty-two seconds. Will this be on the exam sir?” teases Sam.

Five grins. The road begins to slope down towards the bridge leading into the abandoned village. Five is running with the streaming water that is coursing down the tarmac from the top of the hill. Their soaked trainers make wet slapping sounds in the puddles. The whole world is grey and drizzling. This road had only just been resurfaced, before the outbreak.

Ten pipes up again, “So that zom should be heading over to the others, Five, which means that should the need arise, you can actually head straight for its last known position, so long as you stay out of its senses, quick and quiet. My research indicates it _will_ head to the larger group, unless it becomes distracted by something. It’s quite fascinating.”

Five is touched by that, and signs “And helps us.”

“What was that Five I missed it?”

Five tries again as they pass another CCTV camera. “ ‘And helps us’,” supplies Sam. “I agree. Fascinating and essential. Your kill count hasn’t exactly made things worse around here.”

“Yes,” says Ten quietly. “Well. I do my best. I do my bit. As do we all. But… thank you. Er. How’s that loner looking, Five? It’s got another thirty seconds before it’s officially an outlier.”

Five slows to check, shading their eyes from the rain with their hands. Again they click their fingers, two, then four, then one.

“Aww no, what? Ughh…” In terms of expressions of frustration, there’s nothing that can quite beat the groan of a disappointed scientist. “Do you reckon it’s the rain, Five, slowing it down?”

Clap.

“It’s at least still _trying_ to herd, right?”

Clap.

“Ugh, what a pain. Mind you that field’s probably s–”

“Look Ten, I’m sorry, but Runner Five is just about to head over the bridge into Newford, and I really have to take the mic back. Let me just…” There’s a scuffling again, probably as they change chairs, and the sound of keystrokes. “Okay… yeah, yep, so, good old Newford, looted a billion times over by now. Nothing to see here Five. Just run on through, stay in the middle of the road. Watch out for the old market hall building, they tend to get clumped up in there when it rains.”

Five’s feet thud on the bridge, the railway line beneath already overgrown with brambles and nettles that are wriggling and moaning with trapped crawlers. The stench of decomposition wafts up from the trail beneath. They huff a breath as they enter the little village that had been just another blur on the main A-road that ran north-south in this area. Now it is Abel’s local ghost town. One of Five’s first missions had been to the petrol station at the edge of the remains to coax a jug of fuel out of the pipes. Anyone who knows the area knows to steer clear of Newford, it’s useless as a place to hole up. All of the windows and doors on the houses are broken, all the cars torn to shreds in the early desperate search for fuel and oil, all of the little shops looted to pieces, the school burned out after a scuffle between scavengers... The main street is relatively clear of cars and large obstacles, though debris and detritus still litter the pavements. It smells of mould.

“I went to Newford once,” comments Sam. “But in the rain like this? Through a headcam? It is... _really_ creepy.” Runner Ten is staying obediently quiet, though Five can hear him flip a page in his notebook. “Uh, there’s definitely a concentration in the market hall, just as I thought, Five, can you go around them?”

Five claps quietly, slowing their pace. The rain is intensifying, and the wind is picking up with it. They wince, and pull down their hood, and hold their headset away from their ear for a second, listening hard. There’s a chorus of moaning coming from up ahead, probably the zoms that Sam has spotted clustered together in the old market. But there had been something else, something really hard to detect beneath the hiss of white noise. Five sways their head, trying to lock onto it. Sam says something and Five pulls the headset clear down around their neck just for a moment, just to listen for a moment...

Yes. Somewhere off to the left, Five is certain that someone just sneezed.

Five yanks their headset back on. “–cking weather, damn it. Five, what are you… no seriously what– ah, closed questions, sorry, uh is there some good reason why you’re heading down Beckley Close instead of staying on Market Street?”

Five can’t answer, because the moment they pass the first house on this little street, something inside it snarls and bounces against the broken window as it lurches for the door.

“Ohh, oh my god, yeah, there’s one in the house, Five, and uh… just a sec here… why are you even down that road?! Uh… Yeah two more in the next house, and a small pack up ahead in what used to be the… the scout club house. This is a _lousy_ detour, Five. This road doesn’t even loop back to Station Road.”

 “I’ve never seen a mission from your perspective before Sam,” says Ten quietly. “It’s… quite incredibly stressful.”

Five reaches up and back and draws a baseball bat from their pack. At the second house, whose undead inhabitants also groan and begin to shamble into action, Five darts into the front garden, kicks away an obscenely cheerful-looking garden gnome, smoothes the soaking clay soil with their foot, and draws a field sign using the handle of the bat, making sure to aim the headcam squarely at it.

“Rescue?” repeats Chris.

“Oh my god you found Nineteen already?!”

Five glances up. The two zoms are staggering out of the front door, looks like they were formerly an elderly couple. But the one that’s heading down the road from the first house is faster, and much smaller. The back of Five’s neck goes sharp and cold. They erase the first mark and quickly write “19” with a cross through it. Then the sign for rescue again.

“What do you mean?! You’re supposed to be looking for Nineteen!”

“Do you want help?” asks Ten sharply.

Five claps once, and looks up as the elderly woman zombie turns a stumble into a lunge. Five yells out loud and staggers backwards, through a leafy bush and into the fence, turning to scramble awkwardly over it as the elderly man zombie trips over the woman zombie.

“Oh my g– _Five_!” yells Sam, hitting his desk in frustration as Five falls out into the middle of the street, finds their feet, wheels around, and meets the charging child zombie with a two-handed sideways blow from the baseball bat. It crumples and goes down, little ribcage shattered, falling flat on its back, growling wetly. “Runner Ten! Where–”

There’s a clunk and thud as Ten dives for a headset, and shouts back to the mic as he makes for the door, “Stay safe, Five, I’m on my way!”

“Runner Ten! Runner T–! Oh my god. Why does _nobody_ around here l– Uggnnnn!  Come on Sam, pull yourself together. Right. Runner Five, rep–”

_It will kill me if I don’t kill it._ Five grits their teeth, and begins to beat the kid zombie, this time in the head.

“–oorrt oh my GOD that’s just HORRIBLE! Uuugh! Ohh. Ugh. Can you just turn, just, look away from– ughhh. Right, okay.” Sam sighs hugely as Five finishes despatching it, and lifts their head. “I’m starting to hate that headcam. Despite my best efforts to keep a handle on this covert mission, you’ve got Runner Ten incoming, he’s run off to get his gear, ETA about five minutes once he clears the gate. What on earth is going on, did you find a survivor?”

Five tips their head back into the rain, panting, and clicks their fingers once. Their limbs are trembling, the baseball bat held loosely in their dominant hand. Now they’ve stopped moving, the chill air is seeping through their wet clothes. The back of their throat feels like metal, and tastes nasty. They are definitely not looking down. Nope. There are definitely not thinking about the last minute, how close that had been, how horrifying, how wrong it still felt to do that.

“Can you actually see the person?”

Click click.

Sam’s tone has gone as cold as the rain. “Oh this is just… Huh. So I guess this means an Abel Township Runner is… what, just going to have to wait? Until you figure out where this idiot is hiding? And then what, you bring them home? They could be bitten, or worse, hostile! It could be a trap! Meanwhile Runner Nineteen, he could be bleeding out for all we know. He could be hurt. Or… or still wandering, lost in No Man’s Land, he could be at this moment fighting off a horde by himself, confident that Abel will send someone to rescue him. Or–”

“Or not, Sam,” says Ten calmly, through his own headset. It sounds like he’s already in the Runner kit storage, Five can hear rucksack straps being yanked and the jingle of carabiners. “I would give you a breakdown but the last time I tried to calculate the probability that a missing Runner was dead, you swore at me. Look here’s what we’ll do. I’ll meet up with Five and get the survivor, and Five can carry on out to the motorway to look for Nineteen. Is that okay with you Runner Five?”

Five clicks their fingers once. There’s the sound of the heavy tent flapping as Ten ducks through the opening, and comes out into the quad. He breaks into a jog. “Or I will go, one of us will, doesn’t matter which really at this point, does it? But we’ll play it by ear. I’m heading for the gates now.”

“This was supposed to be a subtle mission,” groans Sam. “And we’ve lost five minutes already with this detour, plus another ten for a recovery. And I hate it when you guys go separately, you know I hate it.”

“There doesn’t seem much of a choice.”

There’s a choice all right, and Five has made it for all of them. The consequences are unfolding already. The choice between a human you know is alive, right here in front of you, alive for now and hoping they haven’t been bitten already... or a friendly you hope might possibly still be still alive 5k away, after being missing for an hour already with no contact.

Five is overcome by a wave of despair at the injustice of it, letting out a growl of their own in frustration. But they remember their training. _Make a decision._ You may regret it later, but any decision is better than no decision at all; indecision will _definitely_ get someone killed, but make a choice and there’s a chance someone might still be alive at the end of it. Mentally, they kick themselves back to the surface. _I choose to rescue this survivor first._ There is a slight vindication in that McShell the Mathemagician clearly thinks this is the statistically viable choice, otherwise he wouldn’t have sprung into action to come help. But it’s perfectly possible he’s worried about _Five’s_ chances of survival. There’s also that. 

The elderly zombies are still struggling to stand up. Five again pushes down hood and headset, straining their senses, holding the bat between their knees and cupping both hands around their ears. The sneezer has to be inside one of these two houses. 

Five glances around, but there’s no sign yet of the pack from down the road, nor the ones from the market hall. The wet road has a weird yellow-grey trickle developing, from the little broken body of the child zombie. Five swallows nausea and raises their hands again. Clap, clap-clap clap clap…

Nothing but the rain.

Five tries again. Clap, clap-clap clap clap…

“... hello?”

It’s a young voice, coming from the left. Five grabs their bat and whips around to face the first house, and jogs back up the road. On the upper floor, something moves away from the window near the back of the house. One-handed, Five yanks their headset back into position.

“–on the road, Runner Ten, just be careful. Runner Five, I… well from the way you’re moving I guess you located the loner. I’m turning off your headcam feed for a bit until I get Runner Ten on his way. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

_Me too,_ thinks Five intensely, flinging open the garden gate of the first house so hard it falls off its broken hinges. There’s a zobo sign for “Supplies” scrawled on the wall, which has been painted out in a different colour of spray paint. Five trots up the garden path, avoiding slugs, and steps carefully through the broken door.

Out of the rain, it’s far quieter. Five stands still, dripping onto the carpet, and listens and looks. The ground floor of the house is a wreck, but the disturbing kind of wreck, looted but not destroyed. The inhabitants hadn’t tried to board anything up, or save any of their things. No chance of escape... Sodden curtains drift raggedly in the broken windows. There are family photos on the wall, but Five now knows not to look at those too closely if they want to be able to sleep tonight. Scavengers have emptied the cupboards; plundered the sofa for its cushions and stuffing; ripped wiring out from the walls. There’s still the disintegrated remains of a dinner on the dining table. Two adult plates, and one brightly coloured plastic one.

Five flinches away from the table, now knowing much more than they wanted to about the old occupants of the house, and about the child with its ribs shattered and its head broken in, lying in the middle of the street in the rain, with no one to mourn it, or hold its hand or stroke its head, or reassure it there would be green and yellow plastic plates just like this in the afterlife, with Lion King characters around the rim...

_Shake it off. Not the time._

Five takes several deep breaths through their nose and mouth, scenting, but other than the stomach-curling odour of rotting food there is no immediate stench of zombified remains. Out of habit they poke their head into the kitchen, but it’s been stripped clean already. Even the lightbulb has been taken.

There’s movement from upstairs. Five freezes, hearing the scuffing of floorboards. They tuck the baseball bat beneath their arm and clap again. Clap, clap-clap clap clap…

Clap, clap.

Five clenches their fist, success, but all the same replaces their grip on the baseball bat. They head for the staircase. It creaks with every single step. Sam is quiet, mic off, probably figuring out how best to run his displays so that he can keep both Five and Ten safe. Runner Ten is also quiet, probably concentrating on his pace and not to slip in the rain, and probably trying out his new clicker.

Five comes up towards the landing and slows, mapping the house. There are three doors in front of them, and one more behind them at the other end of the landing. Two of the doors in front are hanging off their hinges. One is closed tight. The last one behind them is also closed. The scuffling sound was when they were in the kitchen, so it must be the room behind the closed door at the top of the stairs.

Five pauses on the stairs, listening hard.

The sneeze makes them jump so hard they lose their footing on the steps, and bump heavily into the wall, grabbing the rotting bannister for support, which crunches and flexes horribly.

The sneezer cries out, and the closed door opposite the stairs is yanked open, and a figure swings a long-handled wrench wildly in the doorway. “Go away! Go away! Go away!” The door swings half-closed.

Heart pounding, Five keeps hold of the bat and beats out the rhythm on the wall with it instead. Bam, bam-bam bam bam…

“Oh!”

Five comes slowly to the top of the stairs, and pushes open the door with the bat, staying out of range just in case.

The sneezer and wrench-swinger is a teenage girl. She is wearing fairly sensible gear, cargo pants and a waterproof jacket, hiking boots. Five tilts their head gently to get a peek into the room, and sees the top of a 50 litre backpack. Other than that there’s the remains of a bedroom, of which only a small nightstand and an empty wardrobe remain. The walls are starting to crumble with damp. Even the bed has been removed. 

The girl has sized Five up in the same way, her wide eyes flicking to the wet-weather gear, the sodden running shoes, the headset and headcam, and the recently-used baseball bat, and she takes a step back, gripping the wrench. “What do you want? I didn’t do anything. You’re not taking anything.” 

Five slowly withdraws the bat, and lays it down on the floor, holding out their other hand. Still moving slowly, they bring their hand to their jacket and unzip it, to show the girl the “ABEL TOWNSHIP” scrawled on their t-shirt.

The girl looks at her askance. “Abel? What’s that?”

“Oh boy she’s not from around here is she?” comments Sam, intrigued despite his misgivings.

Five tries a different tactic, pointing to themselves, and then putting a hand over their own mouth. Then cupping a hand to their free ear and making a thumbs up.

“You… don’t talk but you can hear?”

“Still has a brain, at least,” adds Sam. “Let me talk to her.”

Five takes off their headset and hands it out to the girl. She recoils instinctively, hesitates, and lowers the wrench. “What, you playing music?” Five insists, and steps closer into the room as the girl takes the headset, and creeps up the volume on their comm pack. The girl puts it on. “Um. There’s nothing– Why did you give me this?”

“Hi there, fellow survivor!” says Sam brightly, though Five can tell he’s forcing it even from listening in. The girl jumps again, but presses both hands to the earpiece, clinging to the sound of another human voice. Five bites their lip. “I have the pleasure of informing you that you’ve been rescued by Runner Five from Abel Township, a settlement just up the road. Now would you please strip off all your clothes and let Five here check you for bites.”

“What?!”

Five meets the girl’s eyes and nods. 

“Me?! I haven’t been bit! Can’t you tell that from looking at me?” The girl sniffs, and wipes her nose on her sleeve. “And it’s cold! And wet!” 

“It’s the latest, trendiest way of saying hello,” says Sam, awkwardly jovial. “Bite checks! Everyone’s doing it now! Who are you travelling with, how long have you been on the road - you must know this by now surely.”

The girl is breathing quickly, wide-eyed, not knowing how to answer that. 

Ten turns on his mic. The usual static is compounded by the rain. “Runner Ten here, I’m almost at the bridge. Tell the girl she can wait until there are two of us if she would feel safer. Unless of course she’s really obviously dying of the infection. And by the way Five, that zom got stuck in the huge puddle of mud in the centre of the field and eventually the other four came towards _that_ one instead because she was making so much noise, and now they’re all stuck together. I’m watching now and there are two more heading over the rise towards them. Isn’t that interesting?” 

The girl’s mouth has dropped open. “Oh wow you are _crazy_...”

Five bites down a smile.

“Oh! Hello there, I er, I didn’t realise you still had the headset. Hi. Er, I’m Runner Ten from Abel Township. What’s your name?”

The girl swallows. “Kerry.”

“Okay Kerry. The other voice you heard is Sam, he’s our radio operator, and you’ve already met Runner Five. I’m on my way to you and Runner Five right now, and I’ll take you back to Abel, if you’d like to come with me. Sam, what’s the road like?”

“Uhhh.. yeah they’re still in the scout hut about half a k away, and that couple that nearly made mincemeat of Five haven’t moved yet, probably still struggling to stand up. And the fields are mostly clear, just some shamblers. Anything out in this rain will turn into a shambler, I guess that’s an advantage. I’m turning your headcam feed back on Five.”

“Kerry, stay calm, do exactly as Runner Five asks. It’s going to be all right. Can you do that?”

“Yeah… Okay…” The adrenaline is wearing off, and the girl looks exhausted and scared. She takes off the headset and examines it, then looks at Five. She weighs the headset in her hands several times, and appears to be struggling with an internal dilemma. Then she hands it back to Five, her hands shaking. “If you touch me, I’ll… I’ll… I’ll kill you. I’ve killed people.”

Five gestures for her to remove her jacket. Kerry shakes her head violently. Five rolls their eyes, and immediately feels bad about being exasperated.

“Wow,” says Sam quietly, “total basket case. Check out her eyes, I don’t think she’s slept in days. How did she end up here alone with that ginormous backpack? Did she actually kill someone or just zoms? See if you can get her to talk a bit more, Five. What will she be bringing in with her? Oo, offer her food and water, that works wonders on the feral ones.”

Five worms their way out of their own rucksack and lays it down on the floor. They turn and close the door again, blocking it with the little table. There’s no key. It wouldn’t hold against a determined kitten, let alone a rain-crazed zombie, but it will be some extra aural warning. Five crosses to the window; the girl turns to keep Five in view, flinching and hunching over.

A glance out of the window reveals the girl would have had an excellent view of Five’s previous antics. The street is now deceptively quiet, apart from the pouring rain. Five is starting to get really cold now, and bounces on the balls of their feet uselessly. Maybe some food would be a good idea.

Five goes back to crouch next to their rucksack, keeping their movements slow and non-threatening, and pulls a box of raisins from a side pocket. Kerry’s face lights up. “Oh… raisins...”

“Told you,” says Sam.

Five puts the box on the damp carpet and scoots it across to Kerry.

Kerry falls on it, turns the box over and over in her hands like a mouse examining a nut, then looks up at Five through her bedraggled hair. Still hyper-wary, she tosses the box back at Five. “You eat some first.”

“Seriously?!” explodes Sam, and Five pauses to turn the volume back down. “Who would bother to poison someone in the apocalypse?!”

Five is on the contrary happy to oblige, and opens the box, coaxes a sticky handful of raisins out into their hand, and eats them in one bite.

“It’s actually not as rare as it sounds,” says Ten, with an odd brightness in his voice that reminds Five of Sam’s equally hollow enthusiasm just now. “But er, never mind. Five, I’m here, be with you in a minute. Er, I assume that is Five who has the headset now?” 

Five clicks their fingers once at the microphone, and scoots the box over to Kerry again.

“Oh good.” Runner Ten sighs and adds in a murmur, “That was embarrassing...”

Kerry waits until Five has chewed and swallowed before seizing the box again and cramming the all the rest of the raisins into her mouth at once. Five pulls the spare water bottle from their rucksack, demonstrating to Kerry that it’s okay by carefully pouring some into their own mouth, not touching the rim, and swallowing. They hand it over, and Kerry reacts in a similar way, snatching it and gulping like there’s no tomorrow. Which, Five supposes, there might not be.

Five’s head flicks around as there’s a noise from downstairs, and the stairs begin to creak. The girl inhales sharply. “Oh no, he’s back…”

_He?_ Five shoots her a charged look. The girl backs herself up against the wall. Five leaps to their feet, grabbing the baseball bat again, too on edge to be afraid yet. 

“Hey hey it’s okay it’s Runner Ten,” supplies Sam, at last. “It’s only Runner Ten. But did she just say what I think she said?” 

Five beats the rhythm again against the wall, and there’s an answering two claps from the other side of the door, then a crunching sound and a cry of surprise. Five hauls the table away from the door, yanks it open, and leaps out onto the landing. Runner Ten looks up, soaking wet, one foot through a hole in the step which has opened up beneath him, arms braced against the wall and the bannister, wearing a rueful grin. “Good to see you Five. Could you just, er… Yes, thank you.” 

Five sighs, smiling back, and offers him a hand while he extracts himself. “Okay?” they sign.

“Yes, yes I’m fine, just surprised, heart went into my mouth.” He flexes his ankle. “It’s fine, no splinters or sprains.” He takes off his steamed-up glasses and wipes them on his shirt. “How’s the survivor?”

Five makes the “so-so” gesture, wobbling their hand, and beckons.

 Ten stops Five at the door with a hand on their shoulder, puts his glasses back on, and switches to miming for a quick question. “Bite check?”

 “Not yet,” replies Five.

“Huh,” says Ten out loud, and Five turns to lead the way back into the bedroom.

Kerry has taken the opportunity of Five’s absence to back herself into the corner furthest away from the door, straddling her rucksack, the wrench in both hands. As the two Runners enter she inhales sharply and crouches, preparing to fight. “Stay away from me!”

Ten and Five hold up their hands in front of them. There’s a muffled groan and a thud from their headsets as Sam hits his forehead against his desk, followed by a very quiet “Ow…”

“Kerry,” says Ten gently. “It’s okay. There’s no need to panic.”

“Stay away from me.”

“Okay, that’s fine, we’ll stay right here. But we can’t all stay here for much longer. You’re going to have to make a choice soon.”

Kerry clenches the wrench tighter, swaying on the spot, her gaze flicking from one to the other.

“You’re exhausted,” tries Ten. “Even if you decide to move on afterwards, at least come back to Abel Township with me so you can rest. We’ve gone to a lot of trouble to try to help you.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?” blurts Kerry. “What do you want?” 

“Well… You’re one of the ten percent of people in the entire country that are still alive. We are interested in keeping it that way. Isn’t that enough?”

“And we are interested in whatever the hell is in that backpack,” Sam chimes in, but Five and Ten both decide not to repeat that bit. Even if Five had a voice, there aren’t sure what they should say. And they have a nagging feeling that something has happened in the last few seconds. Something has changed. 

“Wait a minute… Uh, guys…” Sam speaks quickly. “Guys the rain is stopping… they’re already coming back out. Whatever you’re going to do with her, do it now.” 

Ten breathes a shaky sigh. The plan had sounded simple before it turned out that the survivor was traumatised to the point of paranoia. “Kerry. It’s nearly stopped raining. If we leave you here, it is extremely likely that zombies will find you within an hour. We know there’s a pack down the road that have begun to move, right now. It won’t be pleasant. Even if we destroy the staircase when we leave, they will crowd up on a pile of each others’ bodies to get to you at the top, I’ve seen– er, well, I didn’t actually see it but I was there, I’ve experienced that first-hand. They _will_ get you. It’s a horrible way to die. Please come with me back to Abel.”

“If I do, how d–”

But all three of them freeze as a male voice shouts from the street. “Shauna! Shauna are you still there?” 

The girl – Kerry, Shauna, whoever – lets out a whimper.

Five and Ten look at one another, then back to the girl.

“Have you been entirely honest with us?” hisses Ten, a razor edge to his voice that Five has never heard before. 

“I swear… I don’t want to go with him no more. He’s got a gun. He…” The girl struggles to contain tears. “I’m so scared…”

Five creeps to the window and gingerly peeks out. In the street, a man is standing in the centre of the road, poking at the body of the child zombie with the tip of a hunting rifle. He is tall and broad, and wearing a waterproof poncho beneath a similar 50-litre rucksack. “Shauna, there’s fuck-all here. Come down. Did you see who did this? Smashed the poor little thing’s head to a pulp, it’s disgusting.”

Five’s heartbeat kicks up a notch, but they manage to edge away from the window without disturbing the curtain. Runner Ten is manifesting confusion.

“Incoming up the road, from the scout house,” says Sam. “Six of them upright outside, there’s a bunch more still inside.”

There are a lot of things about this situation that are making Five uncomfortable. They turn their attention back to the girl, whatever her real name is. She is watching Five.

Five points to the girl and then to the street. The girl shakes her head violently. Five points to the girl again and then to the Runners. The girl hesitates, and shakes her head slower. Five lifts their hands and casts a glance at the ceiling in exasperation. Then they turn to Ten, “I’ll distract him. Run.”

“What if she doesn’t follow?” 

Five shoulders their rucksack again and clips the chest strap. “Her choice. At this point our lives are more important. Wait till he’s gone, then move. I’ll… think of something. Then I’ll go get Nineteen.”

Ten grabs their arm as they head for the door, eyes wide. “Please don’t– Well. Please don’t do anything stupid. Don’t get... _murdered_.”

Five nods, privately thinking it is a bit late to not do something stupid, and clasps Chris’ other arm; both Runners bring their heads in so their foreheads bump together.

Five takes a deep breath and raises their head. Runner Ten smiles with one side of his mouth, and pushes another click counter into Five’s hand. 

Five nods and tucks it into their pocket. “Stay safe,” they sign, and step quietly out of the room onto the landing. 

“You can’t leave me here!” 

Five clenches their jaw, then wheels around and throws their hands into the air, exploding in a silent rain of gestures fractured with mime, “You can’t get what you want! Understand? You want all of this to magically be over, so you don’t have to make these kinds of decisions any more. Sorry but that’s not going to happen. Either you pull yourself together, because neither of us can do that for you, and come with us. Or we leave you here to figure it out for yourself. We are not responsible for you. I’m going to go and talk to your friend now. Maybe his gun will end up with us and not New Canton.” 

“I don’t understand, I don’t get it!” wails the girl.

“I gave you my _raisins_ ,” signs Five bitterly, then growls out loud and stalks out, grabbing their baseball bat, and leaving poor Ten to deal with her. They are so angry they forget about the broken staircase, and skitter awkwardly down three steps as their heel slides through the gap on the edge of the step and on down the staircase. They catch themselves on the opposite wall and the rickety bannister, heart pounding. 

“What the hell?” 

Ah shit. Poncho man heard that.

“Runner Ten, give me an update? I presume Five just had an epic rage at the kid, all I could see was blurry hands. What’s going on?”

“Five’s going to distract the man with the gun,” whispers Ten tersely. “This girl is pretty badly traumatised, I’m not sure how much of what she’s saying is entirely truthful.”

“I’m not a liar!”

“Please tell me your name,” hisses Ten.

The girl doesn’t answer.

“Q.E.D.,” Ten sighs.

“You know I was never sure what that means,” comments Sam. 

“It’s Latin, it means ‘What–” 

“Shauna, come down! What are you doing up there?” 

Five has crept downstairs to the living room again. The man in the poncho is still standing in the centre of the street, but the gun is held a little more alertly in his hands. Five realises that just making the slightest movement in the doorway will probably draw him to fire off a round right away, not a good idea. They hesitate.

“Runner Five,” says Sam suddenly, “see if you can get out of the back door, it’s on the opposite side of the house to the road. You can loop around through the garden and come out at a different angle. But hurry. There’s a lot of activity.”

“Who’s there?”

Five grits their teeth and slips through the living room to the back door. It’s not been barred, but it is locked. There’s no time to pick it, no time and too loud to break it. Five casts around, and climbs up onto the kitchen sink. The window is intact, and is one of those ones that opens outwards to a 45-degree angle, and it’s easy to force it all the way out past its point of return. Five gets first one leg out, then the other, and slithers awkwardly through the gap, landing in a heap on hands and knees on the wet soil beneath the window, knee-deep in a large nasturtium plant. Five hesitates, then snatches two good handfuls of leaves and stuffs them into their jacket pockets.

“Good. Now head to your… your left. There’s a path that goes by the side wall of the house, _don’t_ take that. Wait until he’s not looking then go straight on across the garden, over the grass and behind that hedge thing. You can get to the far corner of the garden and climb out that way.” 

There’s a small white slug clinging to Five’s left foot after their landing; they find themselves hoping it’s a lucky sign and decide to let it hang out there for a bit. They sidle up to the corner of the house. The usual background noise of zombie moaning filters back into their consciousness, as does more deliberate footsteps. They can’t let poncho man see them yet. They do wonder if he can smell the pungent fragrance of crushed salad leaves in their pockets from this distance. It’s pretty overpowering for Five.

“Wait…” says the voice in her ear. “Wait… There are zoms coming up on him. He’s looking at the house. They’ll surprise him.”

Confusion is turning Five’s brain to mud; like the zoms in the field, all they can do is wade on the spot and make a lot of mental noise. What if the girl was the one they shouldn’t trust, and poncho-man is okay? What if, instead of warning him, letting him be distracted by the zombies actually kills him? None of this feels _right_. 

“Look,” comes Runner Ten’s voice through the headset, still wire-tight. “Once Runner Five pulls off the decoy, we are going to go down those stairs, out of the house, and back up the road, we’ll turn right, we’ll go up the road, over the bridge, and up the hill.”

“Okay…” 

“... Pardon?”

“I said okay.”

“Er… Okay. Great. Er… Yeah. Good!” Ten had been psyching himself up to argue the point, and is adrift with the girl’s sudden compliance. “Sam? How are we looking?” 

“Shh, shh, wait a second… Stay there Five, nothing has seen you yet.”

“Put your wrench away for the moment, please. You won’t need it. The worst thing to fight in this weather is the smell.”

“That’s disgusting,” comments Sam. “Has anyone bothered to pick up clothes pegs y– Five, GO! Go now!”

As Sam yells, there’s a groaning roar from the street, and an exclamation of surprise from the poncho-man. Five yanks on their rucksack straps and leaps out into the garden, overgrown grass swiping at their calves, and runs across to the other side, as Ten replies before he can stop himself, “Formaldehyde would be better.”

A quick glance out over the fence shows the man in the poncho fending off a clawing zombie in a supermarket worker’s uniform with the tip of the rifle, struggling to raise the gun to his shoulder. Five shoves their way into the bushes and climbs over the fence, landing in another heap on the main road.

Then they run back to the side road to check on the man with the rifle.

“Runner Fi–”

The gun goes off.

Five yells and flinches, their hands flying up to their ears. There’s three more exclamations of surprise in their headset. The sound rolls and vibrates off the walls of the houses, and off the clouds up above. And a stomach-curdling roar rises from the small herd of zombies, who all wheel and stagger, and focus on the man. He missed. The one he shot is missing an arm, but it’s still standing.

“Ohh shit,” he says. 

“O-kay! That wasn’t what I had in mind but it worked! Runner Ten, get the girl out of the house, climb out the back window like Five did and cut across the garden. All of them are distracted, you won’t get another chance at this. Go.” 

“They will herd like one mind now,” supplies Ten, as they clatter down the stairs. “All of them, in the whole village, and from a mile around, homing in on that gunshot. They’re coming. We have a horde on our hands. Keep that clicker handy Five.”

“Any tips for survival, rather than data?” asks Sam.

Poncho-man takes a few stumbling steps backwards then turns to run. He sees Five. “Hey! Hey you! Don’t just stand there!” 

Ten racks his brains as they climb out of the window and cross the garden. “Er… You’re alone so… Er, prioritise bottlenecks where possible, er, back alleys, dead-ends that you can climb out of but that they will get stuck in…  Tennis-match them, that’s what Jody calls it when you zig-zag, buys you time, and she made one head fall clean off once. Er. Lead them through puddles and patches of mud, but whatever you do don’t trip. And keep running.”

“You got that Five?” 

Clap.

“Wait, even better Five, there should be a noisemaker in that survival kit,” says Sam suddenly. 

Five slings off their backpack and begins opening it. The man in the poncho runs past Five, but stops in the centre of the road, not sure where best to go.

“Grab the noisemaker and see if you can… Oh no, no, yeah, they’ve seen you Five. Put your pack back on, never mind. Get moving. You’ve got to lead them away from Runner Ten, he can’t move fast carrying that kid’s five ton backpack.” 

“Hey, I have been training too you know.”

 “All right, all right, not _as_ fast.”

The girl’s breathless voice filters through Ten’s mic. “You’re all insane… you are all... _actually_ insane. What am I _doing_?”

The groaning and moaning is getting louder. Five slings the rucksack back onto their shoulders and sets off towards Poncho-Man. He sees them coming and gestures with his chin down the road, holding the gun obviously to his chest. “They’re coming up that way too. Whoever you are I hope you have a weapon.”

Five hefts their baseball bat.

“... That’s it?”

Five realises that if the girl in the house hadn’t said anything, they would be inclined to trust the man in the poncho. But there’s no time now to attempt a parley. They have to move fast and take the entire horde with them down the hill into the town. How to–

Training. Runner Ten had mentioned training. And Five has a sudden flash of memory.

Five stows their bat and holds out their hand to the man with the poncho. He looks confused. Five insists. The man with the poncho hugs his gun closer to his chest. Five insists again, with less patience. The man extends his own hand hesitantly. Five grabs his hand, and pulls him past themselves, in the direction of the railway bridge; pushes him in the backpack so that he stumbles forwards. 

“Woah, woah what the hell?!”

Five points emphatically up the road.

“Runner Five…?” asks Sam.

Five steps to be directly in front of the CCTV camera attached to a telegraph pole at the junction, and signs “FOR SCIENCE!” as big as they can, to the total incomprehension of the man with the poncho, and turns back to the face the oncoming swarm. A shuddering rush of terror chases through Five’s body, faced with… ah yes, the clicker, now they can be accurate about this, faced with… thirty-seven undead in view, with more behind coming up the road.

Five tightens their backpack straps, sticks up their middle fingers at the horde, and performs ten knee lifts.

The effect is instantaneous: there’s a snarling growl from the front row of zombies, and the line starts to bunch up as they veer towards Five’s side of the road. Poncho-man’s jaw has dropped, but he is taking steps backwards, and with a last wide-eyed glance at Five, turns and begins to run towards the bridge, after Runner Ten and the girl who are just visible through the grey, climbing the hill at a slow jog. 

Five pulls a face. So much for distracting the man with the gun. They’ll have to sort that one out back at Abel… Another choice, but one that feels like the right one, with the information they have right now. Five throws in another pair of knee lifts, and begins to back away into the main road.

Sam is encouraged. “Hey-hey, brilliant! That really worked like a charm. Now run, Five! Run! Head north!”

“What? What’s happening?” asks Ten urgently. “What worked?”

“Science is happening, Runner Ten! Five has a horde of fifty or so to deal with now, alone, but it’s a very wet and soggy slow horde, and there are exactly zero zombies on your tail, _and_ both survivors are headed towards Abel with you! That was just magic - don’t I keep telling you it’s the same thing?” 

“What _happened_?!”

“ _Knee lifts_ happened!” 

Runner Ten actually laughs. It’s a lovely sound. “Ha haa! Really?! You did knee lifts and that pulled–? _Thank_ you, I... I thought you wouldn’t ever forgive me for that incident. I’m not sure Maxine ever did. I was having such a bad day.” 

“Oh no don’t worry about that, of course she did. And you’ve saved a few more lives here just now with that, Runner Ten,” says Sam carelessly. “Now all Five has to do is… well, yeah, outrun a horde, get rid of them somehow, and find out what happened to Runner Nineteen. And bring him home, if he’s still alive.” 

“Fifteen percent,” says Ten, sobering. “Statistically.”


End file.
